Tears of Twilight
by Raven Dragonclaw
Summary: 6th year. Harry encounters a menace much more dangerous than the Dark Lord. This leads to an accident, in which he has to find the strength to recover. As the world grows darker, Harry struggles to understand the nature of his life and his choices.
1. Trying to Outrun the Inevitable

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, and any original characters and places that you don't recognize.

* * *

**Tears of Twilight**

* * *

Chapter One: Trying to Outrun the Inevitable 

_It's an irrational fear, it follows me like my shadow  
And it's screaming, horrific screams that try to rend my soul  
It's after me, calling out for my blood   
The hatred, the lust for the hunt, the desire for pain  
A relentless nightmare is chasing me, its smile holding no peace   
I'm running in the rainy twilight, frantic tears running down my face  
But I'm in denial  
I'm trying to outrun the inevitable_

* * *

It was raining again.

It seemed to always be raining nowadays.

The young dark-haired teen sat on a chair near the window of his small room, his face against the cool glass, watching as the heavens cried, the tears falling down to earth. The rain splattered on the surface of his window and as they slid down the slick surface of the glass, the reflection made on his face gave him the appearance of crying, tears running down his pale cheeks. But he was not crying. There were no tears left to shed anymore. And those were not his tears.

It had only been a few days since he, Harry Potter, had been deposited once more into the ever-caring hands of the Dursley family of Privet Drive. They had taken the warning from Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody to heart and more or less treated him well. He received three decent meals a day, was not required to do as many chores, and was given space. Plenty of it. Harry did not attribute the change to some altruistic change of heart towards him. No, it was cowardice. They were afraid of Voldemort: it showed in the lines of Petunia's face, the purple quality that seemed to be Uncle Vernon's primary skin color as of late, and in the fearful large mass that was Dudley. It was the threat of those wizards at the station. It was not out of love or concern for him.

Then again, when was life so generous to him? Family, it seemed, was a thing that was and would forever be out of his reach. His parents were taken away, and now Sirius. Almost his entire life, since he was dropped off to the Dursleys, he had been dreaming of someone to take him away from their mind-numbingly mundane life. When he was thirteen, Sirius provided that hope, the hope that he would leave and actually have a family of his own, not living through Ron and the Weasleys. A parent of his own, a guardian he could trust implicitly with everything, someone who would accept him no matter what, and guide him. The basic thing that the Dursleys could and would never be.

But now, Sirius too was taken away. And here he was, in the same place as he started. Alone.

It was the beginning of July and the heat had failed to descend upon Surrey, or much of England for that matter. Only rain, from monotonous and depressing gray clouds, fell. The news was always harping warnings about possible flooding and the various troubles that it was causing. Harry, though, did not complain. It largely reflected his mood these days and saved him the trouble of slaving in his aunt's garden. Though it was more than likely that he'd have to work harder after the rain ceased. Too much rain could be just as bad for plants as too little.

In a month's time, he would be sixteen.

Sixteen. He would almost be an adult.

That is, if he survived until then.

* * *

And begins again. The endless review of the painful memories of his short life. Even to himself, the person whose mind and memories these belonged to, it was getting old. But they still haunted his unconscious mind, preying on him like a ruthless ravaging beast, his suffering stemming from the shackles of the past. It was during these times he was in the most pain, the worst agony. So many things that had happened…that could've gone better if he had just thought through everything just a bit more…the blood of innocent people on his hands, their deaths achieved by either loving or hating him, in the end his very existence bringing the cruel termination of their lives.

The beast was close, the hot breath of the predator brushing against the back of his neck, making his entire body tense and rigid in fear. It was not the fear that one felt when confronted by something more powerful or greater than oneself, such as Harry felt in the Department of Mysteries during the duel between Voldemort and Dumbledore. This was completely different. This was the terror of something even larger, a cross between human madness and animal savagery. He could just imagine the white fangs of the beast sinking into his neck, effectively breaking the bone and the arteries, killing him in one swift instant in time, the proof of how fragile life was of a mortal being.

Abruptly, the beast moved away and the feeling subsided. The veil of memories before his eyes shattered, the shards flying up to the air, catching a kind of red light as they rose and fell, it all then fading suddenly to pitiless black. Relief immediately flooded him, a rare and brief smile flitting across Harry's face for moment.

It was short-lived. What was revealed to be behind that wall of pain was hardly something to be relieved about. His expression immediately fell to shock, then apprehension. In this dream world of his, in this field of his mind, he backed up several steps, away from the intruder.

Lord Voldemort stood there, as if it were a normal outing to the park, as if he owned the place where he stood. Red eyes gleamed in the dark, a thin smirk gracing a pale snake-like face. A crimson aura surrounded him, distinguishing his black-robed figure in the obscuring shadows. He had no wand in his hand, his arms folded across his chest in an appraising manner, spidery white fingers tapping his upper arm in a nonchalant fashion.

"I'm surprised, Harry," Voldemort hissed, though he thought he could detect something…pleased in his tone. "It isn't very productive to mope now, is it? Not when there are more…_pressing_ matters to deal with, eh?"

"What do you _want_?!" he demanded. "You do enough to me in reality, I don't need you in my mind!"

The Dark Lord just laughed gaily, as if the teen had just said a joke. "Me? What do I want? Immortality and rule over everything, of course! Haven't you figured out that is the highest ambition to achieve and make real? The ideal ambition for the Heir of Slytherin? Come, I had you thought out as much more intelligent than that!"

Harry made no reply, just settling for a sullen, dull emerald stare. There was no point in pushing the intruder out of his mind now. It was far too late for that. All he could settle for was fortifying blocks he had made on the more important and crucial segments of information that he knew. Such as…the prophecy.

"What was that about the prophecy, Harry?"

"Nothing," was the stoic reply, he had settled for not meeting the other's eyes.

"True, it soon will be nothing," came Voldemort's drawl. "Because now it is absolutely positively nothing. Just the ramblings of a mediocre seer."

Harry's eyes turned back to the Dark Lord and he automatically was hit with the intense red glare. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah, you don't know? Well, I doubt that old fool knows either, so it is of no great concern. Tonight was the night of an extremely rare arrangement of the stars known as Eclipse Saturna. Only happens once every millennium or so. If an old dark ritual is made under this celestial rarity, a prophecy can be made void." Voldemort grinned in triumph. "That's the wonderful thing about dark magic – it can do _anything _if you have the right knowledge and resources_._ Whatever that prophecy was, it is now worthless. My life is no longer bound by the strings of fate." A pause. "And I can assume, neither is yours."

He averted his eyes again. Was it possible? When it came down to it, Voldemort had never lied to him. Manipulated him, of course, but lied? He couldn't recall a situation where he had met the evil monstrosity and was deliberately given false information. Harry tried not to think of the irony of the situation: his enemy was most of the time truthful, those who were supposed to be his allies weren't.

"So, I'm offering a chance to you again. To join me."

Harry's head snapped up in shock. What was really going on here?

"You can get rid of them all, you know," Voldemort gleefully hissed. "They are all just using you. None of them would even give you the time of day if you weren't the exalted Boy-Who-Lived. Why else would they never tell you anything? Why else would they entrap you with those _despicable_ muggles?" He spat out the word 'muggles' as if it were a dirty word contaminating his mouth. "I've seen what happened. Your mind was quite open for me the last time we met. Do memories of a cupboard hit any nerves, Harry? Poorly fitting hand-me-downs and endless bullying? What of the endless verbal abuse and neglect? If Dumbledore had seen this all – and he has – why would he keep you there?"

Harry couldn't answer, trying to stop himself from thinking down that line, not wanting to play into the hands of this murderer. The darkness around him was getting ever more suffocating to him.

"Think about it, Harry."

Harry sat up in his bed, wide awake, covered in a cold sweat.

* * *

It was raining yet again. Murky gray-black clouds covered the sky in a thick blanket, the heavy rain coming down hard, puddles that were made just the day before overflowing, a river of water rushing down the streets into the sewers below. In clothes that were altogether much too big for a teenager with as small a frame has he had along with a yellow slicker that could probably shelter three normal sized people from the downpour comfortably, Harry walked out of 4 Privet Drive towards the local store. A sharp crack announced the leaving of the guard assigned to watch him. The teen, nevertheless, kept going. He just had to wait for another few minutes, to hear that telltale popping sound, and he would be once more under the watchful eye of the Order.

He refrained from thinking his true opinion of the guards…babysitters.

Dudley needed eggs. And whatever 'Diddy-duddy-dums' wanted, 'Diddy-duddy-dums' got. It was unfortunate that none of the other burly delinquents that made up the gang of 'Big D' Dudley Dursley didn't know of his home life. And judging from the huge muscles that made up Dudley's body now, the violent and frequent mood swings, as well as one of the most severe cases of acne that Harry had ever seen in his entire life, Dudley was definitely doing something wrong (which wasn't in itself very unusual). If Eloise Midgen had compared her face with Dudley's present complexion now, she probably would be quite satisfied with her looks and wouldn't go so far as to curse her nose off. Harry had suspicions of Dudley possibly using steroids – he was trying to be a boxer, but when did Dudley ever have the conviction to ever _try_? Some champion.

The few people out on the muggle street avoided Harry as if he were the plague, giving him disapproving looks while keeping their distance. The story that he was a budding criminal and a hoodlum was still going strong, apparently. Harry ignored the looks and stares, concentrating his mind on only obtaining what Aunt Petunia 'needed' and that was that. He knew he looked sick enough, with his bedraggled hair and dark circles beneath his eyes, but he didn't want to actually _get _sick.

It was at the crosswalk when it hit him.

That fear that had been haunting his dreams ever since he had returned from Hogwarts. The one whose presence filled Harry with a greater terror than anything he had felt before. The beast. It was closing in on him. Right now. Fast.

And he knew if he approached it, that he couldn't win.

Paying no attention to the other passerby near him, the thought of Dudley's eggs and his domestic mission flying completely out of his head, Harry did what he felt was the only option. He couldn't wait for help. It would be too late. His instinct was screaming for action; already, he could feel the adrenaline to help him.

Harry took off running, the wind flying in his face, the worn trainers slapping the hard pavement and splashing water everywhere. He needed to get away. Before that terror sunk its teeth into him for real.

* * *

The mall was crowded, filled with milling shoppers going to and fro making their purchases. At the large fountain that dominated the center of the main floor, Harry collapsed into one of the benches. Throwing his head back, he tried to catch his breath, panting hard, the rainwater dripping off his clothing and wetting the faux-wood material of the seat. No one could see him – not with the large crowd of people surrounding some new artist. Hopefully, the mass of spectators would shield him from view, long enough for whatever it was to give up pursuing him…at least for now.

He was completely unprotected. He knew his wand would not do much good against whatever _it_ was. Neither was an Order member nearby. No, he had taken off from Privet Drive too fast for one of them to realize that he was gone. In all likelihood, whoever was on watch today figured that he was in his room again, safe from any harm or injury.

What a preposterous presumption, wasn't it? When _didn't_ he get in some kind of trouble?

The noise surrounding him was muffled and stifled in an otherworldly way, as if he were listening from under water. It then faded to silence. Everything stopped. No one…was moving. Morbidly curious of the cause, Harry strained his eyes to see what was going on. Everyone's eyes, the gazes of all who were in the mall, in every store, on every floor, were fixated on one thing…

A tall older-looking man stood, seemingly unconcerned with the number of eyes fixated on him. His weathered face was lined in plain rage, ragged gray-brown hair cut neatly, silver hairs at his temples. His clothes were ordinary muggle ones – a long coat, a plaid shirt, and khaki pants, an outfit that he would expect regular man to wear. The man appeared ordinary…absolutely ordinary. The kind of man that Uncle Vernon would invite over to have drinks with.

Dark eyes were glimmering in the bright overhead lights; rage and hatred were the only sparks of life that showed in those tortured depths.

He looked ordinary. But Harry knew better.

This man…he was the thing that was chasing him. The one that filled him with terror. The Beast.

"It's all your fault," the man whispered into the hush, seeing only Harry in the multitudes around him. "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"

The fountain behind him exploded, water gushing everywhere, soaking him to the bone. The crowd lost their hypnotized state with the startled scream of a woman. With that as a signal, the mall erupted into chaos. People began running for the exits, trampling and shoving each other in their rush to leave. The grills of the food court exploded, fire starting to spread to other areas, noxious smoke filling the air.

In the pandemonium, only two remained where they were. Harry could only stare in shock at all going on around him, unable to move from where he sat. His hair was plastered down due to the water, black soot dirtying one side of his face.

"It's all your fault," the man repeated again. "Because of you!" He began to walk forward, each step he took angry and purposeful, and his voice short and angry. "They're all dead. Evelyn, John, Roselle, they're all dead because of **_you_**!" Pipes rose forcefully from the cement, spewing boiling hot steam as he passed. The man passed through it, unburned and unblemished, as if it were nothing. Harry couldn't move his body even if he tried. The spell was already cast.

It was too intense. His heart was pounding in his ears. A dismal rapid thud, the quick beat of destiny's end. Distantly, he felt the malevolent presence that was Voldemort in his mind. But he paid no attention to the Dark Lord for once, confronted with something altogether more powerful and horrifying.

"Your existence, your pitiful existence! You and the Dark Lord!" he spat. "It is because of you that everyone is dying, innocents who have done nothing wrong, and because of you, they fall to the green light of death!" Somewhere above him, the heavy stone and glass roof of the now deserted mall thundered dangerously, loud sirens now shrieking in the air. "My family all died, due to you!" A twisted, deranged grin twisted his face. "You will see. You will see! You will see why when I was called, I was given the name of **Nightmare**!" As Harry looked on, frozen, the man began to laugh, an appalling laugh that rang through every crevice of the ruined building.

It was then, suddenly, that he stopped. His face contorted from its gleeful expression to that of shock, staring at the ground with fright. With a snap, Harry realized he could freely move again. As he stood up, the violent quakes sent him sprawling to the floor, ripping through the worn jeans, badly scraping his legs. Beneath his body, the ground continued to shake forcefully, so much so that he could not get up without falling again. The cement was breaking apart, pieces flying up into the air.

Equilibrium was shattered.

Trying in vain to get to his feet, Harry found the man staring dumbly at the ground, completely balanced and standing, as if the earth beneath him were not moving at all. "Why?!" he heard him screaming. Screaming at the ground, as if it had done him some great wrong. "Why won't you let me-"

And after a flash of red flame and the sound of glass shattering, everything in Harry's vision went black.

* * *

This is Tears of Twilight, a dark, angsty 6th year fic. Of course, it seems slightly confusing now, but that is now things do begin. Events begin to clear up gradually as the story continues. The significance of the person named Nightmare will be revealed in the next chapter, as well as what happened to Harry after the collapse. Though this story will be continued, it probably would not be updated as quickly as the Elemental series fics. If you have any questions, you can e-mail me or ask on my Yahoo!Group (link found in my profile).

---Raven Dragonclaw


	2. First Breath

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, and any original characters and places that you don't recognize.

* * *

**Tears of Twilight**

* * *

Chapter Two: First Breath 

_Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale  
It is one of the imperceptible reasons for life to go on  
We breathe to live, we breathe to exist, we breathe to transcend  
But there is nothing more sacred than that first breath  
That first taste of a newfound world, beautiful and merciless  
And after that, you can't stop or else you're gone  
If the world that once seemed so wondrous has been tainted  
Just what happens when one does not want to breathe?_

* * *

****

****

****

His eyes snapped open, wide and in shock. He knew. That's all that passed his mind for that brief second. The fact that he had the knowledge, that at that very moment he alone knew, it was the only thing that his shell-shocked brain could process clearly. It was a strange perception, a revelation that both exhilarated him and confused him with its immensity.

Twilight Manifest. **_Phoenix_**.

He inhaled his first breath and in a flood, everything else came back to him. He exhaled, groaning, closing his eyes in an effort to block the images that came. But it was pointless; they passed by him in their cruel dance, each moment so lucid that he knew that he could never forget. Even now, he could feel the traces of terror that had racked his body, which had chosen to betray him in one of his greatest hours of need, clawing at his mind once more in its frantic phantom talons, trying to envelope him again.

He opened his eyes again at the sound of the door opening. _Door? But the last place I was…_

It was then that he became conscious of his surroundings, most of which seemed to be made up of blurry white. He blinked bemusedly, turning to the side at the steady beeping noise. The monitors were too far away for him to see clearly what they showed exactly, but he recognized the IV pole beside it. He was in the hospital – a muggle one. Figures, really, as he had more or less ditched the Order guard (whoever it was) when he took off running from Nightmare. The two bags were filled, one with a clear substance, the other with a red liquid…blood? Possibly. His eyes followed the path of the tubes, watching as the two fluids ran down the plastic lengths until they found themselves at their destination. The IV tubes were injected into him. His hand was nearly the same color as the white sheets they lay on, but he could swear that what he could see of his arms **was** that white color. His other arm was in similar condition and beneath the blankets and sheets, his legs felt the same way.

The primary things that he noticed though were the fact that he felt pain all over and that it was cold. Not comfortably cool, but honest-to-goodness **freezing** ice-cold. Which didn't make sense to him, as the covers on top of him were heavy and thick, his chilled fingers telling him that the fabric was thick wool.

So why did he feel as if he had just taken a swim in the Arctic Ocean?

A short gasp alerted him to the newcomer and he tiredly moved to look at them, though he knew that without his glasses he wouldn't see them clearly. From the way they had walked around the room, the person looked like a woman. It was hard, though, to discern her from the rest of the room with her white coat and shirt. Whoever it was, they looked at the monitors and checked the IV bags before turning to him. Now that they were closer, he could tell it was a woman. Her hair seemed very…big. A light-brown color and she was wearing glasses – ones that had large blue frames. She knelt down to his eye level and spoke gently. "Hey there, you're finally awake."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but found his mouth dry. When he tried to speak nevertheless, he started coughing before a glass of water was put to his lips. He drank it down quickly, desperately needing to quench his thirst. He composed himself, nodding in thanks to the benevolent stranger. She seemed to take the hint, as she began talking again. Harry just let her talk; hoping that in some way, she would explain a few things.

"In case you're wondering," she said, "you're at Mercy Hospital in London, best you can get in the greater area. You were brought here from Surrey General when they got you stabilized enough for the transfer over. Specifically, the pediatric ward, which is a large improvement over the emergency and surgery rooms that you've been in for the past couple of days." _Emergency? Surgery?_ He winced at the memory of the accident and the fire. He must have been a mangled mess when they found him. "To tell you the truth, the firemen and meds who found you didn't think you would even last on the way here. You're one lucky kid." He snorted slightly. Luck. That seemed to be one of the few things that he always seemed to have when in dangerous situations. Not that he was complaining. Though he would rather not be unlucky enough to get into the situations in the first place. "By the way, I'm Dr. Abrams. I'll be helping you get better. You'll have to see several other doctors, but I'm the main one that you're stuck with."

She put a finger under his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. They were a light brown color. "Hmm…what's your natural eye color?"

_My eye color? Why would she ask that? Can't she tell?_ Sure, his eyes were an odd shade of green. Like pickled toad, if what everyone commented in his second year was true. But this was a doctor, who went through years of training. She could probably tell he didn't have contacts (though he wished he had his glasses, badly). "Green," he answered simply, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

From what he could tell of Dr. Abrams' indistinct features, she looked to be even deeper in thought. "What's your name, kid? And your guardian's address? You didn't have any identification on you and even though there was a report in the news, no one's come to claim you. We need to contact them." Typical Dursleys. Though he averted his eyes to avoid showing the hurt, it still bothered him that he felt utterly and truly abandoned at that moment. He didn't know why he did feel that way. When _wasn't _he alone? Thoughts of Sirius flashed before he pushed them to the back of his mind.

"Harry," he answered. "Harry Potter. I live at 4 Privet Drive in Surrey." Secretly, he hoped that they wouldn't find the Dursleys, unlikely a wish as that was. There would be nothing worse than to see Uncle Vernon's purpling face right now. And he doubted he would be able to take some tirade about how he was wasting the doctors' time, that they should be worrying about other more needy – more **normal** – people, not freaks like him. Aunt Petunia would probably be standing on the side, her lips pursed in their usual condescending fashion, bony arms folded as she regarded him with contempt and annoyance. And let's not forget Dudley. Most likely, he would be waiting outside the hospital, thrown out by security for attempting to attack a patient (i.e. him). _Yes, truly a Hallmark moment that family reunion would be._

Dr. Abrams then stood up, taking a clipboard from the side table that he hadn't noticed and jotting a few things down. On that table were his glasses, the black shape unmistakable. "Well, better rest up, Harry. You've got a long recovery ahead of you. You were injured pretty badly, amazing that you had no broken or crushed bones. Not even a fracture. And only a few minor contusions to the head." She shook her head – he could see that big mass of hair moving from side to side as she did. "However, you were burned pretty badly. The unbelievable part about that is that you lived!" _Right,_ he thought wryly, _I'm the Boy-Who-Lived after all. _"Thankfully, the worse ones weren't near any of the important parts. Your legs, arms, shoulders, and back took the worst of the lot while we have some less serious burns and scrapes on the chest and neck. What makes the more serious areas tougher is that you were buried in the concrete for quite awhile, all that weight on them." _Oh joy._ Not only was he nearly killed, but also he was nearly burned to a crisp and he had been trapped under heavy slabs of concrete and stone. Why did everything happen to him? Why couldn't he be – for once – a normal wizard? Not famous, not getting into duels with Voldemort, not getting chased by mysterious people pleasantly named Nightmare, just a normal wizard. Fate definitely had it in for him.

_Oh yeah…Voldemort cancelled out the prophecy. Eclipse Saturna._ He couldn't say that he wasn't happy about that. 

Wait…wasn't Voldemort in his mind when…it all happened? How funny. He had been so afraid of Nightmare that he completely and totally ignored Voldemort. That must **really** be a bruise to the old monster's ego. 

"No worries, we'll fix you up. We did nearly all of the surgery already, so its just bandages and medicine for you." Bandages. That was making his arms look white. She patted him lightly on the arm, so lightly that he for a moment didn't believe that she had even touched him. Though judging from the pain that he was feeling, it was probably for the better. "We're still trying to figure out why you're so cold. And why your eye color changed." _My eye color changed?! How?!_ "For now, just rest up, okay?"

He watched as she walked away, turning off the lights as she reached the entry. The door shutting closed quietly behind her, leaving him alone in the hospital room. Reaching over, ignoring the pain, he grabbed his glasses and put them on, everything falling into focus. The room was awash in a shadowy blue color. A large window was to the other side and he could dimly see the last vestiges of sunset sinking below the western horizon. It glinted off of the wide metal railings of his hospital bed. Reflected on the surface were the vibrant colors of a flower bouquet, which at a swift glance at the card showed it was from the fire department. Apprehensive at what he was about to find, he leaned over so that he could see himself.

He saw his face, small and pale, looking slightly scared. A bandage was pasted to his cheek; a white ribbon of gauze was wrapped around his head, covering his famous scar. The same glasses, the same nose, the same mouth. But the eyes…

One eye, his right one, was his own emerald green. The other was crimson red, with pupils like that of a cat's.

* * *

****

Dr. Mehetabel Abrams walked into the faculty lounge of Mercy Hospital's pediatric wing at around nine o'clock, slightly exhausted but smiling as she walked in to meet the others. So far, things were going great for her. Her mysterious patient had woken up, she had a good dinner, managed to bypass her mother's questions about why she wasn't married (for a first) , and made it to the temple with no trouble. She now was on time for the meeting that the head of the ward called and considering it was an hour to get from her town to here with good traffic, she was lucky. Which was a good thing, considering how her superior despised tardiness.

Sometimes, she wished he would just lighten up a bit.

As she seated herself down at the table, she looked around at those out of the four (including herself) that were supposed to be here. The meeting's purpose, she didn't know, but if her instincts were correct then it had to do with the case of Harry Potter.

On one side of her sat Dr. Timothy Steadman, one of Mercy's best surgeons. For once the affable Irishman wasn't talking, but rather rifling through several sheets and clipboards at a frantic pace. He usually had a smile on his face – a true lover of conversation, preferably with a good drink – and this was a first she had ever seen him so serious outside the surgery room. Between the two of them, they had done the most work dealing with this patient. Even Tim was baffled as to how the young boy survived that disaster.

The police and the government were claiming at the moment that an electrical shortage caused a large fire, etc., etc. But she had her doubts. The building fairly imploded on itself. And considering that the boy was in the middle of it, trapped under concrete and fairly being cooked alive, it was a miracle that the child hadn't joined the thirty or so that weren't so lucky.

To her other side was Dr. Robert Dempster, though she had no idea why he would be here. It wasn't as if she didn't like him, actually they got along fairly well. Intelligent and patient, with a dry wit, he was swell guy to pal around with after work. But what would a psychiatrist have to with the new patient? Dempster dealt with depression and suicide. From the few minutes she had spoken with Harry, he seemed quite sane and stable of mind, a bit shell-shocked, and would do better to wear his glasses than not. Sure, there were a few suspicious marks on his arms and wrists, but they couldn't be sure. They could be old scratches from a previous accident or even a cat. Also, there were only a few of them and they looked quite a few weeks old, completely healed, already fading. As for the ones on the arms, it was difficult enough with the burns. The head better have a good explanation of this…

At nine o'clock exactly, Dr. Vijesh Parmar walked into the room, a sheaf of papers under his arm, dropping them unceremoniously as he sat down at the head of the table. The head of the pediatric ward, he didn't fit the mold of most doctors that dealt with children. For one thing, he was entirely too serious and blunt. He rarely ever laughed or smiled. Robert had claimed it was the result of seeing too many fall to AIDS in Africa before Parmar transferred to Mercy, but she hadn't asked. It didn't seem polite to. He was an older man, several years senior than the thirty-somethings that Robert, Tim, and herself were.

"We're here," he began, "to discuss Patient #0674814." He checked the topmost paper in his pile. "According to the nurses that finished interviewing him, his name is Potter. Suffers several abrasions, a few head bruises, and serious burns." He fixed them all with an intense dark stare. "What happened?"

"That explosion at the mall, sir," she answered. "Judging from his injuries and the reports from the site, he was apparently burned and then the concrete fell on top of him. Evidence points to that he was right at the center of the explosion when it happened."

Parmar snorted. "Better than that other poor bastard. Report says that as soon as they touched **that** body, it turned to ash. He had to be given the label 'John Doe'. Nobody has claimed him either. Kid should be thankful." The dark-skinned man flipped through more papers until he pulled out a familiar looking paper. "We'll discuss your findings in the examinations some other time, Steadman, when we actually have some of it. We're definitely hearing it because 'strange anomalies' are not words that I want to hear. Abrams, you claim there are several strange conditions yourself?"

She nodded. "Yes. First of all, he's colder than ice, even though we have blankets on him." She shook her head in disbelief. "Also, one of his eyes is a different color. It's bright red, with strange pupils. I've never seen anything like it." Mehetabel refrained the urge to shudder. When he first looked at her, she couldn't deny that it was a bit…freaky. His natural eye color was uncommon enough – she had never seen anyone with that shade of intense emerald green that didn't wear contacts. But that red…

"Have we contacted the family?" Parmar shot out. "What are they planning?"

Robert stepped in. "I handled that, sir." At the questioning looks, he replied, "The nurses had their hands full with a few scared toddlers that Dr. Hendricks was trying to immunize. You'd think that old Jimmy would have it down by now. Anyway, I thought I'd help Maude and Leah out and take care of the phone call." This clearly annoyed Parmar, but he instead grunted to indicate to continue. "I called the family at 4 Privet Drive, said it was Mercy Hospital, and if a boy named Harry Potter lived there. Another boy, named Dudley, had answered the phone. Sounded like a real brat, too-"

"I didn't ask for a report on the family's mental state, Dempster," Parmar growled.

Dempster smirked a bit. "I know. But I find it intriguing that when the boy handed the phone over to his father, the way he had done it was by yelling that someone was looking for 'the Freak'." She shared a shocked look with Tim. What kind of family was that?! She also felt guilty…maybe they called him that because of his eyes? It was a possibility. Lord knew that kids didn't accept anything that wasn't normal.

"Continue," Parmar urged. "I'm not making any judgments or calls to Child Services without decent cause to. I hate bureaucrats enough at home, I don't need them at the workplace."

"The father, Vernon Dursley, demanded to know who I was. He seemed **relieved** that I was from the hospital. What he was expecting, I didn't know. I asked if he knew the patient, he said yes. He described the patient as his 'good-for-nothing' nephew, who was always getting in trouble. I wanted to know where his parents were. Apparently, he was taken in at the age of one by Mrs. Vernon Dursley – his aunt – after his parents both were killed in a car accident. I asked several other questions, but most remain unanswered."

"Unanswered?" she put in. "What do you mean?"

"I asked a few basic questions," Robert explained. "Age, allergies, previous illnesses, etc. He didn't know any of it and he doubted his wife did. Out of curiosity, I asked a few more. Hobbies, personality." He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. "What Vernon Dursley outlined was the accepted profile of a juvenile delinquent: impolite, ungrateful, failure at school, trouble with the law, goes to a school that is practically a penitentiary, it goes on. He knew of no hobbies that his nephew participated in, or even his favorite color or food-"

Tim gave a splutter of indignation. "What do ya mean he don't know anything?" he fumed, his Irish accent stronger than it usually was. "Honestly, he lived with tha kid for how many years?! Twelve?"

"According to Leah," Parmar put in, "Harry Potter will be sixteen at the end of the month." The head of the ward was subject to three incredulous stares, which he returned with calm ease. "Will one of you mind enlightening me as to **why** that is so incredible?"

"During surgery and post-examination," she clarified, "we figured he was about thirteen or fourteen, judging from height and weight. If he's sixteen, he's considerably underweight and shorter than most his age." Seeing her chance to speak, she added, "I spoke to him for a few minutes after he woke up and he seemed like a nice boy."

"Lovely," Tim put in. "Feel bad for the lad at school then. You seen the kids these days? More piercings and needles in their skins than the pins in me mother's pincushion!" He shook his head. "And trust me, there were quite a number of those pins in there, I tell ya."

"Moving on," Parmar interrupted. "So if the uncle's telling the truth, the kid's an aberrant one, then? Record and everything?"

Robert shrugged. "That's it, the uncle's lying." He put up a hand to quell the predictable influx of questions. "I'm telling the truth here. Dursley gave me the name of the school, St. Brutus'. I called the offices and they claimed that they had never had an 'inmate' named Harry Potter. Also, I checked the police stations in Surrey for any record of Harry Potter. Nothing." He smirked sardonically. "The irony is, I mention the name 'Dursley' to the sergeant at the station and he nearly has a fit. Dudley Dursley evidently is a problem child. Vandalism, drugs, bullying, harassment, some gang involvement – the whole nine yards. But the family bails him out every time he gets into trouble."

Before she or Tim could put in their two cents, Parmar asked, "Well, what are these wonderful characters going to do about their nephew? If they're coming 'round, I want to know so I can take an opportune break."

"That's it, they aren't."

"Fabulous. Mercy Hospital is spared," the head answered dryly. "Dempster, you're going to meet the kid and tell us what you think in a few days after he gets used to this place. Abrams, Steadman, keep working with this kid. I want detailed and accurate records. No one else but us four sees these documents, not any other doctor or resident, not even the nurses. I want them locked up, even when you take them home. Understood?"

"Why all tha secrecy?" Tim inquired.

"Listen to me well, I'm not repeating myself. We have here an extremely strange case," the head said slowly. "A young boy, underweight and underheight for his age, manages to survive a near impossible accident and lives to tell about it and he's supposedly some teenage budding criminal. Tell me that if **that **is normal. When I was in Africa, I was treating a young boy that had strange story. Some desperate poacher brought him in." Parmar scowled at the memory, his nose crinkling at the thought. "Horrible wound. The boy's leg was blown off. When I asked, he claimed that he and his father were tailing a rhinoceros and started shooting at it. The bullets bounced off of it and it charged them. The horn pierced the boy's leg and it exploded." The other three doctors were silent at the head's tale, listening with dread. "Next day, I come in after the boy had been stabilized. The other doctors and nurses never even heard of the child's name or his case. All his files were gone. It was as if he never even **existed**."

** "**And that is why," he finished sternly. "This is not getting out of Mercy Hospital."

* * *

****

Harry awoke this time to darkness. Well, almost darkness. The streetlights outside cast a slight yellow illumination on the grimly white walls, the lights of the occasional car passing across the ceiling. The clock, after putting on his glasses (_Had someone removed them when he fell asleep?_), showed that it was a few minutes to midnight. The witching hour. Ironic, really. The wizard waking up just in time for the witching hour.

He wasn't sure if he liked it here or not. The nurses, Leah and Maude, were pretty nice. And Dr. Abrams had come in to check on him again. Another doctor, Steadman, was also with her. He demanded that he be called Dr. Tim in a cheerful Irish brogue. If not for the accent and the last name, he could have sworn the surgeon was a Weasley with his easy-going attitude. They checked his eyesight, height, weight, and everything. They also took blood from him – for testing.

They also removed the bandages to apply new ones. It was the first time that he fully saw his body after the accident. And though he had won the war, metaphorically, from the state of him it looked like he lost every single battle in the process. He closed his eyes to shut the images out, both then and now. Dr. Abrams and Dr. Tim both said that the burns were healing pretty well considering. But considering what? It was still a horrible sight. But they said when he was fully recovered, he could probably get some cosmetic surgery if he wanted to, though they doubted the results would be as bad as they could've been. What he did notice was that the pain intensified if he was touched. If it was light, it wasn't so bad. But it would be hard in quidditch (if he could play this year because of Umbridge). He knew that if a Bludger had a shot at him, he'd probably fall off his broom in agony.

"There're much more important things in the world than sports, child! Honestly, this generation…"

Surprised, Harry shot up in bed, wincing from the intense pain that soon racked his body from the sudden movement. He shuddered for a bit, willing the pain to pass, while looking around the room. At first, he could see no one. But then the shadows in the corner began to shift. The air then shimmered before a woman came to view.

"What you staring at, boy?!" she admonished, her strange accent grating on his ears. It was definitely **not **British. American? "Haven't you ever seen a lady before? Have some manners! I'm too old for this, honestly…" Slowing walking over to him, her cane rapping on the tile, she came into view. Standing at the side of his bed was an old woman, probably in her seventies, her dark-skinned face lined with laugh lines, worry lines, and wrinkles. Her silver colored hair was piled up on top of her head in some fancy chignon. Her dress was long and old-fashioned; its black fabric swept the floor as she made her way over.

It took a couple of moments for him to register that a short elderly black woman leaning on a cane was currently beside him. Her sharp dark brown eyes bored into his, as if she were seeing right through him. Unable to stop himself – more from his impatience at his horrible luck – he blurted out, "Who are you?"

"I'll assume you meant something more polite," she quipped back. "You know, like _'hello, ma'am, how are you this fine evening!'_ Definitely not that rude greeting you just gave me!" She snorted and waved her cane threateningly. "And you Brits are supposed to be polite and gentlemanly! My cousin Magnolia was more a'polite than you and she grew up in the backwaters of Louisiana, boy! Not a true blue southern Georgia belle, like me!"

"And you are?" he asked, different colored eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I happen to be Miss Ancelin Ellery," she drawled out. "And you better not forget it or I'll have your head. That'll be Miss Ellery to you from now on. If not that, '_ma'am' _would do just nicely. And you caused quite a riot, child, I'll tell you!" Miss Ellery rapped her cane on the floor, the sound loud in the silent hospital. He wondered why no one, like one of the nurses on duty, noticed. _Well, this is magic obviously. She probably didn't want anyone to come in._ "With a Manifest like Nightmare gone, the whole world is a gonna be in danger! The system's gone clear outta whack!"

Harry merely blinked in confusion at the raving woman. "What on Earth are you talking about?!"

"Manifest, child!" she yelled out, waving her arms erratically. "Like Nightmare! Like me! Like yourself!"

"That doesn't explain much," the teenager put in. "Miss Ellery, ma'am," he added after seeing the chastising look in her eye.

"Didn't Nightmare explain this to you?" she put forward. He was personally surprised how much spirit the little old lady had. He could already see her chasing down some poor bloke that forgot to call her 'Miss Ellery', waving her cane in the air while that chap was running like hell was on his heels. A sharp ringing on the bed rail brought him out of his imaginings, for she had banged the cane against the metal to get his attention. "Don't you go annoying me, boy. Because trust me, that little daydream of yours ain't too far from the truth! I've done it and I'll do it again if I have to." He blinked in shock, but was not allowed to think as to how she **knew** of what he was thinking. "Now didn't Nightmare explain all this to you?"

"Nightmare?" He shivered at the thought of that crazed man, that dark look of hatred meant for him, as a nightmare literally sprung up around him at that wrathful rage. "He didn't explain anything to me. He wanted to kill me."

The woman's whole demeanor changed with those statements. "I see," she murmured. "So, **that's **what happened." She made the sign of the cross, before shaking her head in sadness. "Out of all of us, I didn't expect him to go. Now I'm one of the few left. Pity. He was a good un', I'll give that boy that. Now he's dead. Horrible way to go."

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "I don't know what you're talking about! Who **are** you? Who was Nightmare? And what do you all want with **me**?!" _Don't I have enough suffering to go through? What else is going to be thrown my way? _He saw the look in her eyes and interrupted her before she could speak. "I'll pity myself if I please. What's going on here?!"

"Somebody's gotta replace Nightmare, child," she replied gravely. "And that would be you."

* * *

****

****

Hope you liked the chapter. Things will continue to be a bit confusing, but it will clear up soon. Nightmare is a very important person, though Harry doesn't realize it yet. His story gets told as the story moves on. And Miss Ellery is along to help him out…or is she? And if you're wondering why the Order hasn't been around, there's an explanation for that and it'll come later. This is a very Harry-centric story, with only a few ones without him, and there's most likely not going to be any romance.

The animal that Dr. Parmar described in Africa is the Erumpet. This is the definition taken from Rowling's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:

**_Erumpet _**

_M.O.M. Classification: XXXX _

_ The Erumpet is a large gray African beast of great power. Weighing up to a ton, the Erumpet may be mistaken for a rhinoceros at a distance. It has a thick hide that repels most charms and curses, a large, sharp horn upon its nose and a long rope-like tail. Erumpets give birth to only one calf at a time._

_ The Erumpet will not attack unless sorely provoked, but should it charge, the results are usually catastrophic. The Erumpet's horn can pierce everything from skin to metal, and contains a deadly fluid which will cause whatever is injected wit it to explode._

_ Erumpet numbers are not great, as males frequently explode each other during the mating season. They are treated with great caution by African wizards. Erumpet horns, tails, and the Exploding Fluid are all used in potions, though classified as Class B Tradeable Materials (Dangerous and Subject to Strict Control)_


	3. Forbidden Manifest

Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, and any original characters and places that you don't recognize.

* * *

**Tears of Twilight**

* * *

Chapter Three: Forbidden Manifest 

_Secrets, secrets everywhere  
Hidden deep in the sky, earth, and sea  
Such is the destiny of man, to revel in light and cower in dark  
Those who belong to the dusky twilight are those who will inherit  
As they seek the answers and the secrets, hunters of knowledge  
Divine Psyche, embodiment of the highest light and deepest dark  
My soul is dreaming, the memories of the past unleashed on my mind_  
_My manifestation should have been forbidden_

* * *

**__**

****

****

The words rung in his ears like a grave mournful bell, tolling the moment of his funeral. The cold seeped into his bones even deeper, chilling him to a level that he did not fully comprehend. **_Replace Nightmare?_** How could he replace Nightmare? More importantly, what _was _he replacing exactly? Nightmare should have explained it all to him, according to Miss Ellery. Like that was likely: that man had no intention of talking to him at all except to pronounce a death sentence. Which was very nearly carried out.

Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were shaking. He should know this, that was really the only thing that was clear in his mind, and it frustrated him (as well as scared him) that he didn't know. That he had no idea who Nightmare was, what Miss Ellery was, what according to her…what he was. Manifest. What was that?!

_**Replace Nightmare.**_****

He did **not** want to replace Nightmare. Whatever it was, he at least knew that. "No," he responded, though it came out as a loud whisper in the quiet of the hospital room. "I'm not going to."

"You've got no option," the black woman said, tone plainly implying that there was no reasoning with her. "You were the only Lateil that Nightmare was near when he was called back. It needed a new host-guardian quickly before it could be contaminated." She shook her head. "Do you think I like telling you this? Not even I would want to replace Nightmare, boy! But you were called and that means you have to answer it. No questions asked."

"So I don't have a choice?" Harry demanded. "What your saying is that I was just because I just happened to be close to that ravaging murderer that I've become…whatever it is you claim!" Ignoring the pain and the affronted (yet, he could sense chagrin as well) in the expression that Ancelin Ellery wore, he brought his knees to his chest, leaning his head dejectedly on them. It was always the same. What made him so different from everyone else? So different that he was never allowed free will, constantly being pulled in the direction that either the abstract form of 'destiny' wanted or as a puppet in the machinations of those who were supposed to be encouraging him on his own path in life? "What do you all **want **from me?" he asked softly, but it reverberated loudly off of the white walls.

The bed creaked as Miss Ellery sat gently on the hospital bed, her wrinkled and aged hands grasping on her cane. He looked at her, sulky, as she gave him a reproving dark stare. For a moment, he was slightly reminded of Professor McGonagall and her strict policy for no nonsense, but it soon faded in his mind as he got a good look at her. No. This woman, despite her elderly body, there was a mind as sharp and strong as steel, with a will possibly even greater than he had ever known. She understood, probably better than even he himself did, but would not sway.

But did he know Professor McGonagall? Really? He had only seen her in class or other such occasions. Other than that…

Why was he questioning himself like this? And how did he…how did he know about…

"How did you know about me, child? Simple. You're a Manifest. That easy," she harshly drawled, startling him. "That is the business of a Manifest: to **know**. To find out the hidden secrets. It has nothing to do with being a wizard of moogal – whatever your kind call us regular people." She then paused, adding, "Though there weren't that many wizard Manifests at any given time, actually." The older woman shrugged her shoulders in a matter-of-fact way, continuing, "Prolly because of the cycle…and none of you make much sense anyway. Moving on. A Manifest is one who can find the secrets and use them, who can manipulate the cycle." She opened her mouth to elaborate, but then shut it suddenly. "I'm afraid that is all I can say for now."

Harry gave her a disbelieving look, ignoring the brief flash of intuition that had occurred right when she decided not to speak. _I suppose that's…knowing? Whatever._ "You can't just leave me here like this," he accused. "Especially after all that you were saying before – how Nightmare was **supposed** to tell me? Now you aren't!"

"Be respectful, child!" Miss Ellery admonished, so forcefully that Harry recoiled. "I'm one of the few around here that can actually get you through this – much less alive! Nightmare was much more than a regular Manifest and now that he's gone, you have **_it_**. And **_it _**needs to be protected!" Jerkily, probably due to her age, she stood up, a few bones cracking as she stretched. "You will understand soon enough why I stopped," she finished. "Soon, you will be getting the feeling. The _knowing. **Gnareil.**_ I am not supposed to tell you everything yet, that's what my **_gnareil_** tells me. So sit tight and don't whine. We are merely humans and as such, cannot question what greater powers than we decide."

He winced gingerly as she patted him on the head. "We'll be seeing each other soon, I guarantee that. You're going to need guidance, because if you think you're confused now, wait until the **_Olim Queil_** starts. That'll really throw you for a loop." She walked slowly to the shadowy corner from where she had originally appeared, her black dress swishing and her cane rapping loudly against the tile. "You'll be getting out of here in a week, no matter what those doctors think," the woman said over her shoulder. "Trust your **_gnareil_**. I'll be nearby when you leave this place. Despite what you may think, you can't go on with out some help. Until next time, Phoenix Noveil."

There was a brief shimmer and Ancelin Ellery vanished.

In the silence that reigned in the empty air around him, Harry couldn't help but feel even more alone.

* * *

****

It was unbelievable in itself really. True to the word of the enigmatic (in her own way) Miss Ellery, the doctors were considering letting him out in a week. Though he could see that whatever caused this idea to root in their minds, they were fighting it with considerable will. He could see in it the way Dr. Abrams' eyes narrowed every time she said it, in Dr. Steadman's thoughtful frown, and how Dr. Parmar's stoic face seemed to become even more serious and sharp. True, Harry could not positively say that he knew Dr. Parmar's mannerisms as well as he knew the other two doctors that were helping him heal. After all, he had only met the man once. But that…**_gnareil_** must have been acting up again.

And what it revealed to him – though useful, led him to the decision to be more cautious around the head of the pediatric ward. This man had a sharp mind, keener than most, and was suspicious by nature. He had an encounter with magic, managed to escape with his memory of whatever incident it was, and now was chary of most strange happenings. This including Harry himself. However, the 'knowing' did push him to decide that the man was trustworthy and not a real threat. So that was a plus. Harry wasn't that oblivious to not see that he had no other contact with any other doctors, nurses, or surgeons in the hospital. It seemed to him that Parmar was deliberately limiting Harry's treatment and overall information to only Dr. Abrams, Dr. Steadman, Nurse Maude, Nurse Leah, and himself. He rarely saw anyone else. The solitary person he saw outside the ward was Dr. Dempster, the hospital's shrink, who seemed concerned about Harry's reaction to the trauma. Among other things that Harry was not inclined to speak about.

But overall, it did not bother him too much. The less who knew that he was here, the safer he was, right? No wizard or witch working for Voldemort would be able to sneak in and manage to off the Boy-Who-Lived while he was recovering from such serious maladies. That is, if any of Voldemort's lackeys had the sheer willpower to stand nearly a half-hour of being shunted here and there, asked their identification, etc., just so they could kill little ole him. According to Dr. Steadman, who liked to talk to his patients to make them more at ease, it was difficult for the doctors themselves to get into work.

On the third day of his stay at Mercy, the two doctors decided it was time he received some basic therapy. Seeing the horrible condition that his arms and legs were in, they were a bit hesitant to try so soon after his surgeries, but felt that it was necessary to check. He was under no illusions – this also had to do with whatever enchantment Miss Ellery had done to get him out of the hospital quickly. After some initial difficulty, he found himself able to walk quite well, despite the slight pain he felt. If it were another trick of Ms. Ellery…or a side effect of whatever happened to him, he was unsure.

Of what he could say of his time, it was actually enjoyable to its own extent. He was in pain most of the time, after all. And he still was constantly cold, as if ice instead of blood were running through his veins. There were times that the nurses forced him into bed, wrapping him in blankets, making him drink warm drinks and teas. Every time this happened, they claimed that his lips had actually turned slightly blue and his skin was so white that it made porcelain look dark.

He really had no idea what was going on there.

But it was nice here. The doctors and nurses were pleasant and they didn't tiptoe around him when it came to his injuries. For one thing, they felt it more productive to talk to him about what happened and his burns. And when he did require help, they weren't rushing about or fussing over him (like Madam Pomphrey always had done) but calm and collected. The greatest plus was that they allowed him to keep his own dignity and treated him much like an adult, even if he was in the pediatric section. Though Dr. Abrams said it was only because he was still a minor…and that they originally thought he was thirteen or fourteen.

Which was slightly insulting. But he really couldn't help that he was still smaller than most of his peers, even with the growth spurt that he had the previous summer.

The next morning, he would be returning to Privet Drive once again and he doubted they would be receiving him with open arms. If what he knew of their characters held true, they would just jam him into the backseat of their car, so he would be privy to the pokes and prods of his idiotic cousin, then shunted into his room with the demand that he tell his 'freak' friends that they had no part in what happened and that they won't be paying the bills when they came.

He sighed softly as Leah wheeled him through the busy hallways, expertly weaving him around rushing doctors, running nurses, stretchers, other wheelchairs, and the occasional walking patient or to. During these times, he usually avoided meeting the gazes of other people – the sight of his different colored eyes seemed to be too much of a shock for most. But it was difficult since everyone seemed to want to stare at him, wrapped from head to toe in bandages. It wasn't lost on him how many visitors all the other patients seemed to have – almost every one in the ward had someone there at one time or the other, family and friends by their bedsides. Other than Miss Ellery, he had no one. Not even anyone from the Order.

It really showed how important he was in the world, didn't it?

He had just finished his last session with Dr. Dempster and was heading back to his room to 'rest' once again. If anything, he had 'rested' more than he ever wanted to. He knew it was for his own good, but he couldn't help but want to move about. And after a while, the reruns of old sitcoms did get pretty boring, especially when the television itself was in poor condition. If Dudley had stayed here for as long as he had, the big dimwitted oaf would have probably thrown a tantrum.

**_Well, it's either 'rest' or delving even more into my character and memories. I think I'll take the former._ **Dr. Dempster was a nice person with good intentions. But Harry didn't want to examine himself or the past. All he had to look forward to was ahead of him. And he knew that he would just get even more in the dumps if he cared to glance back at his unhappy childhood, the trouble caused in the wizarding world by his mere existence, the trials that Voldemort had put him through, the pressure of everyone watching his every little movement. The forbidding specter of death that seemed to follow him everywhere, like the feared Grim, causing those around him to fall to their demises. Even Nightmare was killed because of him.

Really, what other choice did he have left? It wasn't as if he could go back in time and change anything, even if he had a timeturner like Hermione did back in third year.

That was the year he met Sirius…

…_You don't seem to be that close to your family, Harry. Why haven't they visited you? They didn't seem to care much when we notified them that you were here after you were stabilized. Can you describe your relationship with them?_

_…They don't really care for me, if that's what you mean._

_…I'm sure that's not true. They must love you if they took you in their home and raised you._

_…No. They're just afraid of what could happen if they didn't…my parents, they…umm…they have friends in high places…in the government…yeah. They wanted me to stay with my blood-relatives, you see, even if my mother and her sister – my aunt – were not only estranged, but hated each other…_

_…So your aunt and mother didn't get along? To tell you the truth, the actions of your parents' friends confuse me, Harry. They only gave your custody to them because you're related? Why didn't one of them adopt you themselves, instead of letting you grow up unloved? Were they aware of your aunt's feelings?_

_…I believe they were well aware. But they had their reasons…_

_…Do you really believe that? What possible reason could there be to let a child be raised in such a manner? Can their reasons for leaving you with the Dursleys be justified?_

_…I don't know…_

_…Hmm. I see. Why don't we move on to something else…I get the feeling you know your parents' friends reasonably well. How do you yourself feel about them?_

_…They make me feel…happy, I guess. They talk to me, they don't insult or bully me, and I have fun with them. They put up with all the trouble I get into. They accept me…_

_…So you think that even if you had gone under completely different circumstances and were raised by your parents like an ordinary child, they would still look after you? They would not treat you any differently?_

_…No, they wouldn't…_

_…You don't sound so sure. What makes you doubt them?_

_…You don't understand! I'm obligated to……never mind._

_…You're obligated to what? To do in return for your friends? Or is it to live up to your parents' reputation, whatever that maybe? You feel trapped by their expectations, somehow bound to act on some kind of vow or promise you think you must keep? Harry, you don't have to do anything that they tell you to. Remember, you are your own person and no one else has the right to control you…_

Distracted, Harry shook the thoughts from the last session he had with Dr. Dempster. It hit a little too close to home than he wanted. Way too close. Leah asked him if he was alright, but he didn't say anything in response, just a nod that he was. He lifted a hesitant to his forehead, reaching to feel the familiar raising of skin that was his famous scar. Instead, his tentative fingers came in contact with the rough texture of the bandages were still wrapped around his head.

**_I'm not obligated to do anything._** It was a liberating thought in its own way. Especially since he already had the knowledge that the prophecy was void. He was free to whatever he wanted with his life. He and Voldemort didn't have to continue their feud anymore: Voldemort didn't have to worry about Harry being the only one to defeat him and would probably get on with conquering the world and all. He didn't have to really be too concerned with Voldemort being solely concerned with killing him.

He tried to push any thoughts of Miss Ellery and her strange visit out of his mind.

As they passed the front desk, the nurse manning the station gruffly called out to Leah, startling both of them in the process. Dr. Steadman explained that it was it was a sort of joke among the staff: put the nice ones with the patients and the ones that are less people friendly at the front desk.

"I'll be right back, honey," Leah said kindly, wheeling him to the side. "They wouldn't bother me if it weren't something important." Harry nodded in understanding, watching as the blonde woman made her way to the desk, but was momentarily sidetracked by a little girl with long pigtails who had whispered loudly to her mother, "Mommy, look at that boy! He has scary eyes!" The hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair tightened as he looked away, hearing the mother hush the child, saying that she shouldn't stare.

Maybe it was just his lot in life to be abnormal, in both the muggle and wizarding worlds. How he was going to explain away his red eye, most likely an unintentional gift from the Dark Lord? He was personally not looking forward to that.

He was brought out of his reverie by a black backpack being placed on his lap. Blinking in confusion, he looked up to find Leah smiling serenely down at him. She went back behind him, wheeling him the few feet into his room. "Well, young man, it seems as if someone had a gift from you. But they didn't say much to Lucy, only saying that it was a gift from mentor or grandfather. Something like that. Lucy said the man who delivered it was not only a pain in the arse, but couldn't seem to settle on who exactly was the person who gave this to you."

He gave the backpack a skeptical look. It couldn't have been the Dursleys. They wouldn't care about what he was wearing unless he went around town starkers. And the knapsack was new, made of strong material and of a well-known brand…from the wizarding world. Carefully, he unzipped the largest pocket and in the white fluorescent light he found several good quality shirts and jeans, the kind that Aunt Petunia bought most of the time for Dudley if there was a gigantic sale.

Digging a bit deeper, he found a folded piece of parchment. As he stood up and carefully sat against the fluffy pillows of the hospital bed, Leah propping the backpack against the nightstand to so he could take it the next day when he left, he spread-out the note, flattening out the tightly creased edges. What he found…unnerved him, to put it mildly.

**_Hello, Harry._**

**_It seems that our link to each other has gotten stronger. _****_A most amazing thing is it not? I felt your fear and pain. _****_I must say that I am curious about this…Nightmare.  
_****_But to other things.  
_****_Here are some things that your pathetic excuse for a family _****_never provided, along with a few…other things. And it does _****_amuse me slightly to have Malfoy Senior act as a delivery boy. _****_But, knowing him, he probably screwed up in some fashion. It _****_isn't so hard to say the gift is from your great-uncle, right? If _****_it worries you, there's no need. I don't believe there is a recent _****_blood relationship between us, if one discounts the events of two _****_years ago. However, I digress.  
_****_I hope you're considering my offer, Harry. I could teach you _****_quite a bit. You don't have to continue to be manipulated by _****_those fools.  
_****_Until we meet again, my little heir.  
---_****_Voldemort_**

* * *

********

The morning sun shining through the vertical blinds of his room woke him from the strangest dream. Lifting himself up, getting sort of used to the pain that seemed to always be present, accustomed to the frigid cold that only he felt in the balmy summer heat. The layers of fleece and wool blankets needed to be pulled back with a slight bit of effort on his part. To conserve body heat, the doctors said. Harry didn't need **_gnareil_** to tell him that they just doing it out of kindness.

His dream was odd…

There was that mirror, an object that he somehow felt attached to, a bond deeper than anything he had ever felt before in his life. The frame was strange, a perfect circle of gold, silver, and bronze. Inside the circle was a star made of the same substances, the lines that made up the design intersecting and crossing over the glass. But the mirror itself…it reflected nothing.

Then the whole dream shifted to someplace he had never been to, yet felt he had. Déjà vu. It was hotter there, the sun glaring down on unpaved streets and buildings whose bricks were made of dried mud. There he could feel the heat, the warmth pleasant on his skin, not the intense internal cold that he seemed to be afflicted with constantly during these past few days.

The weird thing was…he was a **_cat._**

First clue, almost everything was bigger than he was. And he was slightly upset to find in his dream, that he was smaller than the other cats. It was almost as if he were the size of a large kitten, though he knew somehow – **_gnareil?_** – that he was an adult cat. Skinnier, too, with black fur. Golden eyes and large ears, a completely innocent look about it. The kind that if Hermione or Ginny saw, they would immediately deem as 'adorable'. It was the ears that he enjoyed the most, he could pick up every whisper, every mutter, every nuance of voice whether human or animal.

He knew the dream wasn't finished, but what could he do against the sun?

This time around, he managed to refrain from stretching (it hurt…a lot) and blinked languidly, reaching over for his glasses. As he put them on, he was reminded again of that strange mirror that opened the whole sequence to Harry the Cat in…wherever desert place he was in. He looked down to where the sun was glaring off the steel, before stopping and staring at his likeness in shock.

The reflection off the metal railing, which had acquainted Harry with the knowledge that one of his eyes had turned scarlet red with catlike pupils, had another surprise for him. Another one that had to do with cats as well, though he felt that this change had nothing to do with the strengthening of any bonds with homicidal murdering dark wizards. For he was very sure the Dark Lord did not have these physical attributes.

Out of the wild mess of dark hair, stuck out a large pair of black cat ears. Honest to goodness feline ears, like the one's his cat-self had in the dream. "Will this never end?!" he groaned, to no one in particular. He brought his knees up to his chest, feeling icy cold again, leaning his head against them. As he did so, his new ears twitched a bit in response to his agitation and the cold he felt.. He really didn't want – or even need – all this.

"Sadly, kid, it won't," a familiar female twang answered. His ears perked up at the sound, his cat ears had done so literally. But he didn't look up. He knew who it was. Somehow should have expected that strange woman be involved in the mess in some way, with all her talk of Manifests and replacing the person that put him in this position to begin with. And it was the day she said he would leave Mercy Hospital. "I see you've started your **_Olim Queil_**," the Southern brogue of one Miss Ancelin Ellery filled the room. "Dreams of Past Time. Can't avoid it, part of a Manifest thing. Let me guess, you were a cat in your dream?"

* * *

****

****

Enjoy Harry's cat ears? There's a reason for them and it has to do with the dream he had.

I've been working on this plotline a little more lately, probably because I realized that I really hadn't put much thought into it. Thus, now I have. Miss Ellery is important and she is one of my favorite characters – probably because she's so brash that people just don't expect it. No, there will not be a hierarchy of gods like I have in the Elemental series, but it all becomes clear soon. And the mirror is definitely important as well as Harry's dreams. I've decided to include a little more action than I had originally planned and it will all come into play soon. Also, an entirely new magic system.

If it isn't bad enough that I have had computer and Internet problems for nearly the entire summer, school starts for me next week. Sigh. Back to…the usual stuff. Luckily, I have a study hall this year. I could probably fit in some writing time then. Thanks for being patient and for all those kind people that suggested software to help prevent it from happening again. I'm eternally grateful.

For the sake of you readers, here's how to pronounce some of the new terms as well as a short definition, though some Harry doesn't even know yet. Most of the definitions will soon be up on my Yahoo!Group.

**_gnareil_** – knowledge, the 'knowing'. (nar-eel)  
**_Lateil_**_ – _'latent', meaning one that could become a Manifest (lah-teel)  
**_Noveil – _**"novice", meaning one that has just become a Manifest but needs training (no-veel)  
**_Olim Queil – _**"dreams of past time", dreams of past lives (oh-lim keel)


	4. Snake Charmer

_**Disclaimer:**_ I only own the plot, the concept, and any original characters and places that you don't recognize.

* * *

**Tears of Twilight

* * *

**

**Chapter 04  
Snake Charmer**

_Restless nights under a clear moon  
I languish in want of lush green  
Apparition of the twilight, daring rogue pilfers gold  
Broken locks, stolen keys, missing treasure  
He walks a path of hazard and chase  
Graceful and sly, seductive and alluringly dangerous  
Snake charmer, steal my heart away_

* * *

"Halt! Halt, I say!" 

Like he was going to stop.

Loud bells clamored to life, shattering the night with the alarm. Though to his ears they sounded doleful and weary, hardly raising the panic and call to action that they were meant to. He did not stop, nor even hesitate, for the smallest moment in time. All he could feel was the liquid thrill, rushing pleasantly through his veins and pounding in his ears. His body was rejoicing with him, the power of his magic and blood singing a song that only he could hear, his leather boots slamming against the white marble floors as he ran. Behind him were the guards, who protected the gold of their decadent ruler with the dragon-like ardor that only comes from having their every desire fulfilled for the sole use of their muscle and strength. They were ones who would do anything to take back their beloved metal treasure, which even they did not truly own.

He loved every minute of it.

The edge of the wall's ledge loomed before him, the periphery of the boundary separating the island of ordered mass of civilization from the vast sea of the beautiful chaotic wild. The desert, an errant breeze blew fine sand over the hewn stone blocks that made up the outer wall of the city. He never could admit that he did not love the desert. If asked, he would have to admit that the desert was a bit like a woman – a striking and dominating one with an independent streak as wide as the milky river of stars that shined in the sky, whose moods varied and required a lot of effort to win even just some small amount of favor in her eyes. One that could elicit both adoration and frustration from you, one that you felt you couldn't live with or without.

And he had a lot of experience with women. Quite a bit, actually. It was unfortunate, that he hadn't met a woman such as that during his wide travels. As such, the desert was his true mistress. And it would be she that would open her arms and provide him a haven.

Above him, the pale round face of the moon had rising high, pouring silver light onto the land. It illuminated the pale sands, lending an ethereal beauty and innocence upon the simultaneously cruel and stunning landscape. Certainly it was a fine night, truly, for blissful romance and wicked danger.

"We've got you! Return the treasure and we will let you slowly rot in prison and spare you the slice of our blades!" There were some out-of-breath chuckles at this little annotation to their usual blather. They were not paid for mercy and a death would just provide them a little more gold in their purses as well as the satisfaction of taking a life feeling some strange justification for their blatant ambition. The guards stood in a semi-circle around him, the wall's edge completing the trap, their spears brandished and scimitars unsheathed. It did not escape his sight that the barrel-chested sentries were having, their dark faces imperceptibly colored with the flush of exertion, misted lightly with perspiration. But surround him, they did. Their bulky heavy bodies blocked the only way past them. He lifted both his hands, devoid of weapon or treasure, in a placating motion. But a smile, Cheshire and assured, crept upon his face, his lips saying eloquently enough what he did not put into words.

He didn't care. For he knew that he would escape. Dim-witted sheep as they were, able to catch him? That would be a feat of complete and utter impossibility. If the best bounty hunters of the age, the most vigilant of guards, and the wisest of kings all have had trouble dealing with him, what chance did they have? The only time he could be captured was if he himself had decided to be, which he had done before and had benefited massively from. But, for the moment, it wasn't exactly in his best interests to be.

The grin widened into a wry smirk, one that conveyed his otherwise well-placed arrogance and his mutually large contempt fro them, before he back-flipped over the edge. The movement, from start to finish, was fluid and graceful, as if he forever belonged to the air around him. As he completed the flip, falling over into empty space, his cape and loose clothing (ideal for such an environment as this) billowing he executed his acrobatics, disappeared from the sight of the astonished guards.

Mingled within the shouts of horror and shock, he heard the occasional comment – most pertaining to his state of sanity. Somewhere, barely heard over the tumult of hasty footsteps to glance over the parapet (he could already sense their eager and hungry eyes searching the foot of the wall below, like hyenas for a kill), he could hear the distinctly clipped and vulgar voice of the head guard and a few of his officers.

"Is he mad?!"

"**Was**he mad?!"

"Considering his record, probably was…do you think he's dead?!"

"Why did he do it? We could have spared him…right?! I mean, I'm sure his majesty would be happy to employ his services…why are you all looking at me like that?" Evidently, that one came from a newbie to the force. As predicted, the others promptly ignored the owner of this voice.

"I don't see him! Where is he and the treasure?!"

"But he must surely be dead! He can't just get up and walk away!"

"Don't just stand there!" Yep. There's the chief. "Go and find the body! We must return the treasure to his majesty!"

A stampede of hurried footsteps, their boots much heavier than his own, disappeared into the night. The bells had slowly died down. From beneath the marble ledge, which sparkled in the light of the full moon, he grinned at victory.

Did they really, honestly, think that they were going to capture him?

How absurd.

> > > > > > > >

"I see you have returned. I assume you were successful?"

"Must you ask?"

"Hmm…cockiness has been the fall of many a great man. I would be upset if you join their number and fall as well, Shahin al-Kamel."

"Yes, I know, Ahmed. You've told me a dozen times already."

"And you never listen."

"True. Why do you bother after all these years?"

"I suppose that somehow, though proven otherwise countless times and probably turning a blind eye to the desires of heaven and your actions, I still possess the hope that you would one day listen. It would do you some good, Shahin, and spare you a quite a bit of trouble."

"That's completely irrational."

"When is hope ever rational?"

He was looking down at an old man, who was clad in heavy robes of white, black and red, both of them standing in the full glare of the desert sun, the ground caking and the sand blowing idly in the wind. The elderly man's face was concealed but for his eyes, old and wrinkled, a bit of white blindness starting to fade the dark brown irises. Like himself, he wore a head covering to shield his head from the heat and face from the sands.

From the saddle of his horse, he fairly towered over the aged merchant, whom he knew as Ahmed ibn Jasharan. Unlike his steed, the old man's camels seemed as ancient as he was, their floppy ears dropping and eyes seeming as if it had seen enough for its lifetime. His cream-colored lightweight clothing, robes, and cape blended in well with the monochromatic hues of the desert, whose temperatures during this noontime could be adequately called 'hellish'. His soft frown boots were already shod in the stirrups, the carefully crafted saddle a memento from his escapes in Spain. Oh, how much fun he had there…especially in Cordoba. But he had always had an insatiable wanderlust burning within him – so it wasn't strange that he left.

Of course, like most of the things of peculiarity about him were largely foreign…and did not come to his hands by any innocent means.

But what was innocence to one whose concept of fear was smaller than a great deal of the population, whose respect for the property of others skewed and twisted? He was the trickster of old, pure nerve and valor exemplified in the restless soul of a charming rogue, driven not only by the promise of wealthy easily won but by the challenges of transgression in general. He lifted a gloved hand to his brow, making a mocking salute, before spurring the horse forward into the dry sandy expanse. He quickly left the old man and camels behind, his steed faster without the heavy weight of the glittering and seductive gold and silver.

He had only kept one piece of the treasure with him – one that those annoying guards wanted to recover most of all. He had his reasons. After all, such a thing, though small and looking unremarkable compared to the other items he had robbed, had great importance to him…and to others who wanted the power to rule. It was quite a catch.

The wind blew back his loose cape and the drapes of head covering, the roan colored horse the only thing moving for miles.

> > > > > > > >

He entered the kasbah near sundown. And by the exited chatter of the roving multitudes, news of his latest caper had spread. Traders were the greatest messengers of news, faster than those lazy officials that the rich lords employed. But he could not gloat over his great victory for now, to be revered by the murmuring crowds. That would be stupid. Nice, certainly, but still undeniably stupid.

Instead, he settled for mingling in the beauty and chaos of the city's kasbah (up north, they called the town 'Algiers', though he had heard so many names for the place, he wasn't that picky). Around him, languages mixed into a disturbing mass of confusion and commerce, generations of human innovation of spoken word used in every fashion in an attempt to communicate. All for the sake of gold and goods. Truly, the world ran on money. Though never born among the native peoples of this region of Africa, he did enjoy the bustling atmosphere. It reminded him a bit of his birthplace, where the influence of Arab and Egyptian (along with the addition of his Persian maternal grandmother) provided an eclectic mix of culture. He had journeyed far from Saridh, but he felt it was worth it.

Deftly, he moved through the throng of people pushing and shoving to get where they wished, his eyes (like Ahmed's before) the only feature of his face revealed. He noticed the suspicious eyes of an Arab trader he knew quite well from Medina, how the dark orbs followed the movement of everything around him. It was a firm fact that Abu Harun would welcome his presence – the only thief to be allowed by the paranoid merchant. How this came about was quite an amusing story, involving a set of porcelain vases from the Far East, but it was unimportant. And with all the gossip spreading as widely as it was, it would be a great danger to them both.

Especially considering that currently in a leather pouch close to his side was concealed a treasure fought over by all who conquered and who wished to conquer. What gave kings their power, empires their life, the prosperity of ages, whose very existence was the shape of the tombs of the mighty Egyptian pharaohs.

And he, Shahin al-Kamel, had stolen it.

Cuffing a mangy street pickpocket over the head before the child had a chance to perform his tricks, the ugly boy baring yellow rotting teeth in a snarl as he glared and cursed from the blow, he slipped unnoticed into a dark alleyway. It was thankfully devoid of any other human presence.

All he needed now was to find the door. That was the downside of traveling so much and putting such complex spells up to hide the location of one of your bases– it was difficult and wholly frustrating to find when you came back.

There was a hissing beneath his feet. _Welcome back,_ the sinuous snake, pale and tan as the dusty street, murmured as it uncurled itself from the dark shadows. _It has been awhile, Master. What have you done this time?_

Shahin grinned. _A great deal, Sashenka,_ he hissed back at the reptile, his tongue easily adapting to the flowing tongue of the snakes. It had been a skill he had been born with, though he took careful care never to reveal it. Snake speakers were too highly mistrusted by the authorities since many who spoke it used snakes to poison and kill. Even if he really had nothing to lose from anyone learning about it anyway._ I would tell you more, but it appears that I have a problem._

_I see…,_ Sashenka replied, and he could sense a slight laugh (for a snake) in her hisses. _You forgot where the door is again. This from the master thief who had broken into hundreds of palaces, tombs, and churches?_

_Very funny, Sashenka. Very funny._

* * *

Miss Ellery said he would be a victim of strange behavior after he was completely released from the hospital. After three days of being out of the hosptial, Harry was inclined to agree. Now, so far, it had been ten days of utter confusion, madness, and general chaos. Where? In his mind. It was terrible and hard to deal with, having your very mind as a battlefield for some strange unknown force that he was unable to understand. There were times where he thought he literally was going mad. 

During the day, he was assaulted by warnings, messages, signs, and premonitions that he had to interpret in a matter of seconds, right there on the spot. He retreated even further into himself after his first time walking outside. Within five minutes, he was back in his room, clutching his head and shivering. This slightly worried the Dursleys, if only for the fact that they were concerned the Order of the Phoenix would blame them for his accident. He did nothing to allay their fears. They didn't care for him and they hurried him out of the care of Dr. Abrams and Dr. Dempster, nodding 'yes' and 'alright, we'll do that' in regards to his treatment with the kind of fake saccharine facade that Harry knew the hospital staff would catch. Besides, he was too busy trying to organize the mayhem that ran rampant through his head. Often these flashes of insight and their messages slipped past him as cryptic as ever, his mind usually too overwhelmed to deal with it all anyway. And then there was the feeling that despite all that was going on, he was being watched. _**Gnareil**_, he had decided, was a veritable nightmare. And at night came those strange dreams that both terrified and exhilarated him.

It was still raining.

He was still undergoing treatment, despite the fact that through some providence (or Miss Ellery) had let him out early. Every morning and night, he was to apply a strange silver gel that would help his burns heal and keep fresh bandages on. It was difficult the first few times, but it got easier as he had more practice. Also, Dr. Abrams gave him painkillers to help with the pain he felt, preferably every night until she said so. It would help him rest, since the burns and injuries made moving very difficult and hard to do. After being knocked out for a full ten hours the first time, he vowed to only take them after he was done with everything at the end of the day. He just hoped Dr. Abrams would give him less powerful ones by the time he got to Hogwarts.

As much as he hated to admit it, he had to be thankful that Voldemort sent those clothes along when he did. Granted, the Dursleys accepted the explanation that the Order sent them. That cold feeling was still there and he could never seem to get warm. This was a constant worry to Dr. Abrams, who couldn't find an explanation other than to wear warm clothing and drink hot liquids. He couldn't blame her - a burn patient always feeling cold and having a below normal temperature? The new clothes were thick and of good quality, though he did admit he looked out of place in the summer. Harry was unsure how to go about this now - should he thank the person who was essentially out to kill him for his charity or to throw the thought aside. What he was thankful for was the lack of Voldemort in his head. It made things a bit easier to deal with - he didn't need an evil Dark Lord to make his mind more of a battle zone.

Another part of the recovery was suggested by Dr. Dempster, who he was required to see at least once a week. It involved writing down his thoughts and feelings in a notebook, just letting it all come out, instead of holding it in (something he usually did). _"Bring this in next time you come," _the psychiatrist had said, handing him a pen and notebook. _"I expect some writing in this, young man. You can't internalize everything. While you're with Dr. Abrams and Dr. Steadman, I'll take a look at what you wrote."_ After his examinations with the pleasant female physician and the rowdy Irish surgeon, he would go back to that comfortable room to discuss what he wrote. And it did get **slightly** easier. Though he still wasn't inclined to speak all that much. And he never showed Dr. Dempster the **other** notebooks he had been keeping.

What neither of them realized was the extent he would write. What started out with one blank composition notebook somehow resulted in more than a dozen. Every single inch of paper in every single one of them was covered with his scrawl, the legibility fluctuatng with the extent that the _**gnareil**_ or his injuries affected him. But even Harry had to admit that it was getting to be too much. Dempster was getting worried as well since Dr. Abrams scolded the both of them over his sprained wrist. Dr. Parmar, the head of the ward himself, came in asking about hypergraphia. And from the descriptions and the symptoms listed to him, Harry was afraid that he might be afflicted with it.

But he had no time to spend mulling over some mental illness that implied he wrote excessively because of an overabundance of words. The _**gnareil**_ was enough. Miss Ellery had said it would pass once he gained some semblance of control over it. It didn't seem like he would anytime soon. And writing had become automatic now. **Too** automatic. And it scared him.

He labelled each notebook with their subject. Some were general, filled with his thoughts on the way his life was and everything that a normal teenager would write about - a journal. These were the ones he would show Dempster. Others were filled with accounts from his dreams, the names of the people on the cover. It would help him organize the memories and help somewhat with the dissociated feeling he felt afterward, usually writing in the third person to get back to being 'Harry'. One time he had grabbed one of these instead of the journals when being rushed out to the hospital by Uncle Vernon. Needless to say, he was shocked to hear Dempster claim he was quite talented at writing fiction. Harry did nothing to contradict him and let him believe that he was talented at writing (when he knew he wasn't) and that those words in those specific books were fiction.

Then there were the _**gnareil**_ books, which were filled with _**gnareil** _signals he received during the day. Most comprised of warnings to avoid his cousin, less-than-happy uncle, and any accidents that might occur in the Dursley household. A couple even referred to people walking past the house while he was looking out the window. The warnings were useful - getting hit and bumped by anything would cause him a great deal of pain. But there were others. The first clear sign that he was actually comprehending a _gnareil_ premonition was two days ago at the dinner table.

The Dursleys were nervous about something...and were going to leave the country without him.

They feared the Death Eaters.

They feared the Order of the Phoenix.

They feared **him**?! Well, what kind of freak could survive an explosion like that?

He wasn't going to stop them. It would be better for them in the long run anyway. And it wasn't as if they ever loved him to begin with. Besides, another feeling - something not quite like _**gnareil**_, but all the same compelled him - not to act on it. To see what would happen (he was feeling a bit impertinent that day), he attempted to broach the subject.

He found himself the next second spread-eagled on his small bed, gasping as if the air had been punched out of him. His conclusion? Whatever was the second strange thing: it was taking over his actions, like _**gnareil**_ had taken over his mind. And in the increasing storm of his life, he felt like he had no control over any part of his fate. Even his own mind was not in his own hands.

They would be leaving without him to the States in three days, the crunching of tires on gravel heralding their return from their agent. With a sigh, he leant back into the thin pillows of his bed, finding no comfort or peace of mind. What was happening to him was frightening him, everything was coming all at once.

He cast a dark look at one specific book that haunted his thoughts. Harry got up and hurried out of his room, eager not to be in the same vicinity as the first and hardest-to-fill notebook. The notebook he had, on a whim of that second compelling feeling, emblazoned with a strange circle of runes and symbols, the one he called 'Nightmare'. In it, all the parallels, all the mistakes, all the patterns...they were all in there. And it went farther than that. Not only was he able to pinpoint the exact personality profiles of every one of his friends and enemies - he had projected their fates in just a mere matter of days. And he had a feeling that with each one, he was right on the mark.

Harry Potter was now more aware of everything – and he was finding himself wishing that he were ignorant once again.

* * *

The Dursleys were gone. He had expected this. Aunt Petunia left him a short and stilted letter on her special purple stationery, saying they had to go to the States for '_business_' and they weren't sure whether they would be coming back anytime soon. They also claimed they left him in Britain to '_continue his treatment with doctors that he knew_'. They wished him luck during the summer and that he better notify the Order that they were unable to bring him along. They also left him a small pile of pound notes. 

It was too easy to read between the lines. The message had been carefully worded with barely any feeling but fear behind the words. And Uncle Vernon's fat and greedy fingers had carefully counted the money. Just touching the crisp bills, he could feel the overbearing and slick feeling he had been feeling from his uncle since he had been released from the hospital.

It had been another trying examination, both physical and mental. Dr. Abrams had insisted on a few difficult physical tests to check out his movement and healing. Harry wasn't put off by her smile – she was shocked because he was making rapid leaps in recovery that should have taken a few months to make. Then Dr. Dempster was asking about the Dursleys – how they were treating him lately, what was the cause of their animosity, why they didn't seem to care for him. If he didn't know better, Harry would guess that the insightful shrink already knew the Dursleys had skipped the country and he was alone.

It was still raining.

Harry walked out of the hospital, his limbs aching and feeling sore, but still incredibly chilled. He wore the new clothes that he had been sent – a pair of blue jeans, a black turtleneck under a thick woolen green sweater. He kept his hands in the pockets of his heavy gray raincoat, the water droplets sliding off the repellent material of the hood. The new boots he had bought with the pound notes his relatives had left him were proving useful. His face was focused on the cracks on the sidewalk, as he turned left to the busy avenue. Without Uncle Vernon, the only way to get to the hospital was through a combination of long walks and buses. It still took about two to three hours, especially since the traffic nowadays was awful.

As he walked despondently, a cane suddenly appeared out of nowhere at chest level. And it was a very familiar cane. The **_gnareil_** warned him enough ahead of time to avoid walking right into it. "You're scared of your abilities, child? Of seeing beyond the veil of unawareness that protects our fragile minds?" a familiar woman's voice drawled moodily. He looked to his side to find Miss Ellery standing there, the elderly black woman standing proud and sure in a long out-of-date gray dress, a black shawl over her gray chignon of hair. The wrinkles of her face were drawn grimly, her black eyes looking at him in blatant disapproval. "There are better uses for our gifts than moping, child. You've got to grow up and realize that."

"Gift?" Harry repeated mockingly. "What are you talking about, a gift? It's a curse!" He gesticulated wildly and completely forgot they were in the middle of a busy street. But as he went to withdraw his outstretched hand, a harried looking businessman running straight through it as if he were a ghost. Eyes wide in shock and unease, he kept his hand out and saw what happened repeat again and again, this time with a housewife and a older teenager with enough piercings that it made one wonder if they were more metal than flesh.

_Look down, _his**_ gnareil_**was commanding. Figuring what was going on would be explained, he followed suit and looked down at his feet. Gleaming on the pavement, were clean and smooth lines of color contrasting against the crooked fractures of the cement. They glowed brightly in the drabness of the rainy day, twisting and swirling in patterns that he both recognized and did not know. They were intertwined in an elaborate circle under his feet and Miss Ellery's, enclosing them in its design.

It looked remarkably similar to the design that he had drawn on the notebook 'Nightmare'. The runes and ordering, as well as the central symbol, were different, but the similarities were far too glaring to ignore.

"You're familiar with this," Miss Ellery proclaimed, as if reading his mind. "It is impossible for you not to. Manifests instinctively know these mandalas." She smiled calculatingly. "This is the Circle of Sight. It is a simple one and not too difficult, but exceedingly useful. You will have to learn it…and more."

"The Circle of Sight?" he asked skeptically, looking down at the glowing lines. It was hard to perceive…but he could see…"The Eye…"

"So you do see it? You are further along than I thought," the older woman mused. "It is probably because of the circumstances." Harry opened his mouth to ask, but Miss Ellery cut him off harshly. Even though she rapped her cane against the magic channels on the ground, they were unchanged. "Do not ask, you are not ready for this. And I do not say this in order to spare your feelings. You have every right to ask. But because you have the right does not mean that you are prepared to take up the responsibility of such dangerous knowledge. You will know soon, but now is not the time."

"And when will I?" he asked stubbornly. His eyes glared at her intensely – one bright and clear emerald, the other crimson and unnatural. "When will I be ready?" He felt only more annoyed by her cunning smile. It reminded him so much of Professor Dumbledore throughout the years that passed. He was **not** a child.

"Do you think that I am stupid?" Miss Ellery commented dryly. "You aren't a child, you're sixteen. You've seen _Death, _you've experienced _Letuseil_ many times. But until when you can handle your power and can hold your own, it is better for you to not concentrate on it," she answered. "I've seen you – and you know it. It is how you recognized the Eye of the Circle of Sight. Not consciously, but you felt something."

He looked away, but she continued. "You have the dreams. But you haven't realized why they are so real, have you?" Harry didn't answer. "Because they aren't really dreams, child. They're _memories_."

Harry looked up at her in surprise. His mind immediately flashed the images of himself as the small black cat with the large ears, as the daring and charismatic thief who stole a golden treasure.

"The mind and soul are complex. They are pieced together, different combinations from different souls, to make each truly unique. But there is one thing that is always true: these pieces will always retain the memory of the past. The good and the bad."

* * *

The mystery gets deeper as Miss Ellery opens up a bit more about what's going on with Harry, though she did admit that she couldn't tell him something important. What she's holding back is very important and she does have her reasons for keeping them from our rather angsty protaganist. And they are good ones. Though we really don't know exactly what the strange woman is up to.

What Miss Ellery had done with the magic circle is very important.

For those that don't know, hypergraphia is the opposite of 'writer's block'. Yes, this does exist. It is when there are too many words to let out.

The 'Nightmare' notebook is going to get a lot of questions. I'll just say this - it's very significant to the plot and will come up later. Harry, though he hates it, does have to refer to it often. Harry's **_gnareil_** and the new feeling are essential cores of the story.

Hope you liked it!

---Raven Dragonclaw


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